Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 163: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

122 Pickwick Abroad. But where was the owner of the ent thus stored? Mr. Crashem was seated upon a chair in which he with difficulty main- tained his balance ; a cigar was in his mouth, a tumbler of punch in his hand, and his eye contemplated, with a species of vacant satisfac- tion, the mops and brooms that relieved the sight in the perspective of his chamber. Mr. Lipman was seated upon the floor with his back to the wall, being too much intoxicated to remain stationary on a more convenient seat; and the eternal wooden pipe was performing for him its wonted and agreeable office of emitting volumes of smoke. Add to this description, the person of Mr. Jopling, who was quietly snoring away under the table, where he had fallen an hour before, and the interesting scene is complete. The three friends, upon the strength of the discount, had prudently determined “‘ to make a night of it ;’? and they had done so with a ve : mdeed, Mr. Crashem goKed very much like a man who intended to make a quiet day of it ‘Ah! Pick—Pick—wick, how d’ye do, old—-chap?” enquired Mr. Adolphus Crashem, glancing vacantly from the household furniture towards his visitor, and still dubious whether it really were Mr. Pick- wick or not. ‘‘ How d’ye do, though?” he added, after a moment, which he wisely employed in a strict scrutiny of the person of our great hero: ‘‘ pray, sit down—and do as we do. I can’t get up—to --to welcome you; for if I did—I should imitate that—that—con- founded drunken dog’s ex—ex—ex—ample !””—and with these words, Mr. Crashem applied the heel of his boot in a truly facetious and friendly manner to Mr. Jopling’s ribs. ‘‘ Keep up the spree, gentlemen, say I!’ exclaimed Mr. Lipman, whose powers of articulation were unimpaired ; and in order to assist the hilarity of the morning’s entertainment, he very obligingly com- menced the first verse of a highly pathetic and affecting song, the words of which ran nearly as follows — “‘ A pot of good porter fill—fill up for me, ive those who prefer it blue ruin ; But whate’er be the lush, it a bumper must be, For we’re serious in what we are doin’ !” And so indeed they were, God knows; for at the conclusion of this verse, Messieurs Crashem and Lipman laughed heartily, and drank off the contents of their glasses, with a kind and patronising nod to Mr. Pickwick, who stood a silent spectator of this extraordinary scene. ‘¢ Keep up the e!’’ cried Mr, Crashem. ‘* Hooray °”’ ‘“ Hooray !”’ echoed Mr. Lipman; and he immediately proceeded to chaunt the second verse of his select air. ‘‘ And now that our and ci are begun, And all our best feelings Sas Us, S Let us drink our own health, and be d——d to the one Who refuses to join in ‘God bless us! od bless us !’” “Excellent *” said Mr. Crashem, approvingly. ‘* But—I say—old fellow,” he added, addressing himself to Mr. Pickwick, ‘‘ you don’t seem to—to pay any atten—tion to my—mops!” COL (©) NOOO KS (c@